


What This Country Needs

by tuesday



Category: Original Work
Genre: Intrigue, Loyalty, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:13:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22609852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesday/pseuds/tuesday
Summary: Crown Prince Patrick wasn't meant to live long enough to be crowned.
Relationships: One-Armed Veteran Swordsman/Delicate and Sickly Prince He's Training, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 17
Kudos: 133
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	What This Country Needs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maltpowder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maltpowder/gifts).



Crown Prince Patrick wasn't meant to live long enough to be crowned. He was born sickly. When he came out, he was blue, one of his lungs not fully opened. The way Jack heard it told, one of the midwives had lightly slapped his tiny body, and the subsequent screaming fit had opened the lung the rest of the way. Many said it would've been kinder to let him suffocate. The king himself said it whenever he was too deep in his cups. 

In the years that followed, Patrick remained underweight and prone to illness—coughs, sniffles, fevers, complaints of pain with no obvious source, lethargy, dizzy spells, on and on and on. When Jack was a fresh knight, rewarded for a particularly good showing at the most recent tourney by a seat near the high table, he watched the prince—a boy of maybe eight, but who looked much younger due to his slight stature—cough himself into a faint after a single sip of watered down wine. His younger, healthier brother and sister watched with interest; the king with apathy. Eventually, a nursemaid came and took all three away, carrying the small, limp body with an air of exasperation that said she'd done this many times before.

Over a decade later and less an arm, that remained Jack's prevailing memory of the little prince: a too-small child on the cusp of death surrounded by people who didn't care if he lived or died. Jack was starting to get the feeling that the balance had shifted drastically in one direction, and not in Patrick's favor.

"Your majesty, I am honored by the opportunity," Jack said carefully from his position kneeling on the stone floor, trying to figure out how to turn the honor down. He felt like an empty hearth. He had only ashes left to give. He was tired. He had done so many terrible things for this man, but he didn't want this, even if _this_ was doing his best at a task he was designed to fail.

"You are honored," the king agreed. "But you've earned it with your years of service and sacrifice."

"I'm just not certain how useful I would be as a tutor, all things considered. I wouldn't want to let down your majesty."

"It's not like they took your sword arm. You won't let me down." The king waved off Jack's attempt to demur with both his words and a sharp gesture. His eyes were hard. His smile was as cold as the stone against Jack's sore knees. "I'm sure you'll be just what this country needs."

—

Crown Prince Patrick's previous sword tutor had slipped on a frozen puddle at the top of the battlements and gone right over the wall. He hadn't survived the landing. He also hadn't left a lesson plan. Jack showed up to the first day with a couple of practice swords looped through his belt and not much else, including expectations.

It was good he had none, because even the prince's presence would have exceeded them. Jack held up the wall of the training salle with his shoulders and waited and waited. Eventually, a servant showed to tender the prince's apologies. Today was a bad day. He hadn't made it out of bed.

Jack sighed. He straightened up. "If he can't come to me, then I'll go to him." 

"Really, sir, it's not necessary—!" the servant said, fluttering her hands.

"I've been assigned this job, and I'm not going to half-ass it. Today was for showing me what he can do, but I'm sure I can get a general idea talking with him. Putting him through his paces can wait for later."

The servant made a sound of dismay as Jack went for the doors, then dashed ahead with a hurried, "I'll let him know to expect you."

Despite the brief warning, Patrick was still abed when Jack made it to his quarters. Jack was let into less opulent rooms than one might expect of a crown prince. The furniture was all well made, and there were several cheerful vases of hothouse lavender despite the snow drifting down in flurries outside, but Jack had half been expecting silks and gilt and delicate glass figures to match the delicate figure lounging in the middle of a nest of pillows blinking sleepily at Jack's unimpressed face. The lord Jack had squired for had been a minor one, but his guest rooms had been nicer and better furnished. There were no decorations besides the vases, a few plants, the tapestries lining the walls and keeping the heat in, and the frankly ridiculous number of pillows. The receiving rooms had the minimum of a table, a couch, and a few chairs, all easily tidied away. The bedroom was dominated by the bed and a large wardrobe.

"Your highness," Jack said and bowed.

Patrick waved a pale, thin hand that looked like it had never held live steel or even the wood of a practice blade. His face was flushed. He seemed like he was a single harsh word away from keeling over. At least he was in a good place for it. "Please, don't stand on ceremony with me. You're my teacher. I'll be in your care."

There were two problems with this: 

One, Jack wasn't likely to be a good tutor. Skill came with experience, and he had none. Sometimes the gap could be made up a little in enthusiasm, but enthusiastic did not describe how Jack felt about this situation. Resigned, maybe. Horrified. Like he was putting his neck on the block right beside the prince's. 

Two, looking at the prince laid out in that bed, dressing robes gaping open at the collar to reveal his sharp collarbones and the pale expanse of his chest, Jack knew all over again that he was the wrong choice. At some point, the crown prince had grown up and grown into the whole sickly, suffering aesthetic. If he passed out at a banquet now, there'd probably be bloodshed over who got to carry him back to his rooms. Jack would probably be tempted to be one of the people brawling.

Jack sighed again, more feelingly this time. He leaned against one of the tapestries and, through it, the wall. He felt like he needed the support. "First, you can tell me whether you've actually seen a sword."

"Sure." Patrick's lips quirked up at the corners like he was smiling at his own private joke. "I've even touched one a few times."

It was a place to start.

—

Crown Prince Patrick was cagey, uncooperative, and, if not malingering, then strategically leveraging his illness.

"It doesn't matter how good you are on the theory if you never put it into practice." Jack tossed a blunted sword into the prince's quilt-covered lap. "I've been patient, but it's been three weeks. I don't care if you can't keep it up, I want to see what your form looks like."

Patrick picked up the practice sword like Jack had presented him with a dead rat—and not one of the little ones that got in the grain sometimes, but one of the large, ugly ones that a small child could ride into battle. Despite the way he hesitated to touch the thing, Patrick was smiling. He said, "You seem awfully confident I can get it up in the first place. I'd love to show you my form, but I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you again today."

"This morning, I got the king's permission to take drastic measures. One way or another," Jack promised, leaning over the bed and gripping the bedclothes, "I'm going to get what I want."

Patrick stared with wide eyes as Jack pulled the bedclothes off, then shrieked when Jack pulled him from the bed and tossed him over his shoulder like an angry, flailing sack of rice. Really, for someone who was supposed to be sickly, the man could really get power behind his blows. Jack was going to have bruises from Patrick's fists pounding against his back. Smiling grimly, Jack held on.

"I can take you to the training yard in your dressing gown," Jack said, ignoring the knee that rammed against his ribs, "or I can let you down and let you dress yourself."

"Let me down!" Patrick demanded.

Jack let Patrick down. Patrick got dressed, shooting Jack accusatory little glares with every piece of clothing donned like he thought that might convince Jack to grow some shame and let him get dressed in peace. Ha, no. The last time Jack had thought he'd convinced Patrick to get ready and left for modesty's sake … Patrick had locked him out, then claimed he'd passed out when he'd bent over to pull on his trousers.

"Don't forget your coat," Jack said after Patrick finished lacing up his boots.

"The salle is heated," Patrick said.

"We're not going to the salle," Jack said.

Patrick huffed and grabbed a coat. Jack grabbed the practice sword Patrick had left on the floor with the bedclothes. By the time they made it to the training yard, he was wheezing. Jack was sympathetic. He'd sounded nearly that bad when the lord he'd squired under had made him do his first long distance run in full plate mail.

"Good job." Jack threw the blunted metal at Patrick, who put up a hand and let it bounce off. Snow drifted down around them in big, fluffy flakes. It stuck to Patrick's hair. "Now that we're here, you can show me exactly how much skill you want to be public."

"All my skill—or lack thereof—is a matter of public record," Patrick said. He dropped the sword the first time he tried to grab it. When he lifted it, his arms trembled. It would have been more believable if Patrick hadn't shown his hand when Jack had pulled him out of bed. 

"Sure," Jack said agreeably. He remained agreeable through Patrick dropping his sword again, through Patrick's frankly abominable form, through Patrick's nonexistent footwork, and through Patrick keeling over after less than a candlemark of time outside.

Jack knelt by Patrick's collapsed body. He said, "Do you want to get up, or do you want me to carry you?"

Patrick moaned unintelligibly.

"Don't push me down the stairs for this," Jack said. Jack picked him up and carried him.

When they got back to Patrick's rooms, Jack dumped Patrick on the couch, waving off the servants who offered to get Patrick's personal healer. He locked the doors behind them. He pulled off Patrick's coat and loosened the neck of his shirt. He checked Patrick's pulse—fast, but strong—then stood and pushed all of the furniture in the inner receiving room against the walls.

"I'm so weak," Patrick said, barely trying at this point. He peeked at Jack through barely slitted eyes. Then, proving he was just switching tack, "It would be terrible if someone took advantage of my helpless, attractive body. You could undress me the rest of the way, and I wouldn't be able to resist at all."

"You'll do whatever I want, huh?" Jack asked.

"I'd let you do whatever you wanted," Patrick corrected. "I have no choice." He licked his lips. "Anything you wanted, I'd have to give it to you."

"In that case, there is something I want. No matter how much you whine, or beg, or plead, even if you pass out from it, I don't care. I'll have this from you." 

Patrick's breath caught. His legs spread incrementally, knees parted. His head tipped back in invitation. The snow in his hair had melted, and a drop of it slid off his hair and down his temple. His collarbones were showing again, and Jack only had himself to blame this time.

Jack dropped the practice sword on Patrick's chest. He pulled out his own live blade. He said, "Get up. Show me what you can really do."

And then he gave Patrick no choice.

—

Crown Prince Patrick truly was terrible at the sword. His stamina was horrendous. The wheezing wasn't an affectation.

He was pretty good with a hidden dagger, though.

"I shouldn't trust you," Patrick said, the tip of his blade pricking Jack's throat.

"Worst case scenario, you can always throw me off the battlements," Jack said, voice calm, but heart pounding. It wasn't fear coursing through his veins. Patrick was somehow even more attractive when he was mentally sizing Jack up for a coffin and deciding whether to put him in it.

"I shouldn't trust you," Patrick repeated, but he lowered his blade.

When Jack lunged this time, Patrick dropped his dagger. For all his innuendo, his kiss could be termed an attack, his teeth cutting into Jack's lips. His hands shook when he undressed, but he said, "I want this. I _want_ this," when Jack tried to slow them down. They didn't make it to the bedroom, only as far as the couch. When Jack knelt, the stone floor was cold under his knees, but his heart was warm, the fire in it rekindled into an inferno.

Patrick pulled on Jack's hair. He whined; he begged; he pleaded. He gave something Jack didn't demand, but was more than happy to receive. Afterward, he returned the favor.

—

Crown Prince Patrick was never meant to live past childhood. He certainly wasn't meant to be crown prince. He was sickly and weak and nothing like his warrior king father. If he wouldn't die on his sickbed, his father seemed determined he would die on the battlefield, sword welded to his trembling hands if need be.

Jack was determined he would live to be king.

—

King Patrick was a vision in royal blue. The crown gleamed gold on his head, though Jack suspected it wouldn't be long before Patrick found an excuse to discard it for something lighter. Patrick's smile was light and carefree and nothing like the smug smirk that had painted his face when Jack caught him getting ready for his coronation.

Jack had a position near the high table despite not taking part in the tourney. The only reason he didn't have a spot _at_ the table was because Patrick was still consolidating his position. Honestly, Jack preferred it down here, where he could watch Patrick pretend to drink his watered down wine and smile and laugh his way through the feast like he was utterly carefree and didn't have several plans currently in play to take care of every threat to his life and rule.

"Your majesty," Jack greeted him that evening when he'd slipped into Patrick's new rooms. They were fancier than his last ones, but vases of lavender showed Patrick laying his own claim.

"I thought I'd miss highness, but I could get used to this," Patrick said. He waved away his servants and, loosening the ties at his neck, collapsed back into a bed piled high with pillows. "You should kneel at my feet and swear fealty again. I liked that."

Jack knelt at the foot of the bed, and Patrick laughed, then trailed off into a wheezing cough.

"No, no, later. When I can properly appreciate it." Patrick lifted a trembling hand. He said, "You should help me undress. I'm too exhausted to do it myself."

"I can call back in your servants," Jack said, but he was already up and leaning over the bed, undoing the knots in Patrick's bootlaces. Honestly, how spoiled was he, wearing shoes to bed? Jack pressed a kiss to Patrick's knee and pulled off first one boot, then the other.

"But I'm so weak, too weak to fend off any last last-minute assassination attempts. What if someone took the opportunity to strike? Could you live with yourself letting a member of the royal family die through your neglect?"

Jack could point out that Patrick had vetted his staff thoroughly. He could point out that if Patrick's personal servants had wanted to betray him, they'd probably have done so before he was crowned king. He could point out Patrick had once pushed a would-be killer off the battlements while barely clinging to consciousness, then framed a bit of ice. He could point out that he certainly hadn't done anything to save the previous king from a Patrick-engineered accident and loyalty to the royal family was no longer a compelling argument for him.

"No," Jack said. He started on Patrick's belt. "I really couldn't."

"Then I'm in your care," Patrick said. His smile was bright, but genuine this time. "It's a very good place to be."


End file.
